Horseshoes and Holly Sprigs
by smartyjonescrzy
Summary: Racetrack Higgins loves Christmas, and he's taken extra pains to make this his most special one yet. But after tragedy strikes, it takes an unexpected fugitive on a stormy Christmas Eve to remind him of the true meaning of Christmas. 2010 NYNA WINNER!


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Newsies. All characters and events pertaining to the movie Newsies belong to Disney.**

**WINNER of the 2010 New York Newsies Awards!**

**WINNER: Best One-Shot**

**WINNER: Best Racetrack**

**Thanks to ShotRock for letting me participate and thanks a bunch to everyone who voted for my fic! It really means a lot to me and I really appreciate it! Enjoy the story! ~ smarty**

* * *

**Horseshoes and Holly Sprigs**

"Ha! I got you!" Les Jacobs cried before ducking a snowball that buzzed past his ear. Across the way, Racetrack Higgins crouched behind a pile of snow, the mush from Les's well-aimed throw still sliding down his face. He was currently piling up a large stack of snowballs, a vengeful gleam in his dark brown eyes.

Les's older brother David smiled and shook his head at the pair. He was sitting on the bottom steps of the fire escape, an open book lying across his lap. "Better look out, Les. Race is comin' after you."

Les laughed and watched his breath dissipate in the chilly winter air. He suddenly shivered and huddled deeper into his tiny wool coat before diving into a nearby snow bank to avoid one of Race's snowballs. The air was frigid, the alley they were playing in was damp, the sky was ominous and overcast. It was the perfect weather for Christmas Eve in New York.

"Darn right I'm comin' after you. You got good aim, kid!" Race called from the shelter of his fortification. He ducked behind the wall and started making up more snowballs with his bare hands. They were pinched and red from the exposure, but he felt far from cold.

Racetrack loved the wintertime. To him, it was a time when the ugly, disfigured features of the streets were clothed in a purifying white blanket. People smiled and gave him things as he passed by. Even though he didn't own a single scrap of winter clothing, the temperature never bothered him. The boroughs were under their holiday truce. A few of the local joints allowed him free meals, sometimes with a few drops of beer sneaked on the side. Kloppman didn't kick him out if he decided to smoke a cigar in the boarding house when there was a snowstorm raging outside. All of Medda's shows (as well as her other establishments) were free. As far as Race was concerned, the only downside of Christmastime was the fact that there was no racing at Sheepshead Bay Racetrack.

Mrs. Jacobs suddenly appeared on the steps and smiled at the boys. "David, Les! Dinner's on the table. Come and eat it while it's hot."

"Oh, boy! Christmas ham!" Les cried, starting for the door. David blocked his path. He was agonizingly slow in standing and brushing the snow off of his book. Les groaned and stood on his tiptoes anxiously.

"Hey, kid! Come here a second." Race stood and reached into the pocket of his checkered vest. "I got to give you my Christmas present."

Les turned, his face alight with excitement. "You got something for me?"

"Yeah, it's Christmas. Why wouldn't I?" Race grinned. He loved most everything about the holiday season, but his favorite part of all was giving gifts. He didn't care whether he received anything or not. It was giving that mattered to him. It made him feel like he was actually a decent human being. Most people thought Christmas was about the presents, but for Race, that feeling _was _Christmas.

"Now close your eyes and hold out your hands."

Les smiled and eagerly did as he was told.

"No peekin', now, you hear?" Race pulled out a small object and gently dropped it into the boy's tiny palm. "Dere you are. Merry Christmas."

Les opened his eyes and looked down at the unassuming amber sphere nestled in his hand. "It's a marble," he said flatly, hardly able to disguise the disappointment in his voice.

"But dis ain't just any marble." Race knelt down to Les's level. "Dis is a special magic Christmas marble. You gotta be real careful wit it, see, cause it's got a very special power. You know how it works?"

Les shook his head.

"Well, every Christmas Eve right before you go to bed, you take dis here marble and hold onto it real tight," Race smiled and pointed up with his finger, "and you look up at da brightest star in da night sky," He dropped his voice to an enchanting whisper, "and you make a Christmas wish. Now, you only get one wish or else it don't work. But I guarantee your wish comes true by dat time Christmas day."

"Really?" Les breathed, gazing his treasure with a newfound respect.

"Have I ever steered you wrong?" Race tipped his navy cap further back on his head and gave Les a fond clap on the shoulder. He stood and brushed a few flakes of snow off of the knees of his brown trousers, watching Les and his gift all the while. He finally hooked his thumb through his suspenders and grinned expectantly. "Well? What do ya think?"

Les shook his head in wonderment at the simple object. "Gee, I've never gotten anything like a special magic Christmas marble before. Only…" He glanced doubtfully at the overcast sky. "What do you do if you can't see any stars?"

Race shrugged. "I don't know. Use a lamppost instead."

Esther Jacobs clutched the stair rail and smiled. "Come along, Les. The family's waiting."

"Thanks for the marble, Race." Les reached out and hugged Race's legs, making the older newsie inhale sharply in surprise. "It really is swell."

"Think nothin' of it." Race quickly peeled the boy off and started shepherding him toward the door. "Now, come on. Your ham dinner's gettin' cold."

Les raced ahead of him and stopped squarely in front of his mother. "Ma, look what Race gave me!" He proudly held up his marble.

"That's very nice, dear. Make sure you wash up before sitting down at the table." She kissed the top of his head and ushered him inside.

"Bye, Race!" Les called before scampering off into the apartment. "Sarah! Sarah! Look what I got!"

Mrs. Jacobs turned back to the orphaned young man standing in the snow at the foot of the stairs, smiling wanly after Les. He looked as though he ought to be frozen in his flat cap, shirt, vest and trousers, but he didn't act like he was. The biting cold had changed the color of his skin from creamy white to deep crimson, with his ears and the rounded end of his thin, delicate nose an even brighter hue than the rest. The strands of his short brown hair that peeped out from under his cap lay twisted and matted with snow. He was so youthful in appearance that the older teen could almost pass for being twelve. Then, as he turned to leave, he pulled a cigar and a match out of his pocket. He wasn't the type for pretending to be some cutesy youngster.

"Racetrack?" Mrs. Jacobs called tentatively.

He slowly turned back around in surprise, quickly pulling the cigar out of his mouth. "Yeah?"

She smiled and hugged herself, shivering in the cold evening air. "Would you like to stay and have Christmas dinner with us? We'd be glad to have you."

Race gawked. For a second, he wondered if she were actually serious. Then, despite his best efforts, a bashful smile crept across his face. "Oh, no, I…I couldn't do dat. It's very nice of you and all, but…I wouldn't wanna impose." He retreated a step backward. "Sides, I got big plans myself. Who doesn't on Christmas Eve?"

She shook her head dubiously. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Trust me." He nodded, smiling.

"At least let me give you something…" She looked about her on the landing, then held up a finger. "Wait right here." She turned and picked up her skirt, bustling into the apartment.

Dutifully, Race ascended the steps and waited for her. Mrs. Jacobs was a lady. A fella always had to oblige a lady, no matter what the circumstances. He leaned against the brick wall and struck his match. The glare from the small flame illuminated his face and gave a small measure of comforting warmth. As he lit up, a breeze gushed around him and brought a few flakes gently down to the ground with it. He quietly smoked on his cigar, watching the light snow steadily begin to fall.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Jacobs reappeared with a dressmaker's pin and a freshly clipped holly sprig. Race snuffed out his cigar and turned to face her. She smiled and studied him for a moment. Then, with a swift hand, she reached down and pinned the holly sprig to the side of Race's cap. When she'd finished, she gently patted his shoulder.

For a moment, Race's resolve wavered hesitantly. He was tempted to accept her invitation to dinner. Then, shaking his head, he brusquely turned to go. "Thanks. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Jacobs."

She sadly watched him go. "Merry Christmas, Racetrack. And God bless you."

Race stiffened and whirled back around in the direction of the door, but she'd already disappeared inside. He stared at the landing indecisively. Then he shifted a few steps to the side and craned his head to peer in the front window.

Mrs. Jacobs was just sitting down at the table, which had been covered with a white tablecloth and several delicious platters. A couple of tall candles glimmered brightly in the center, giving a tantalizing glow to the ham sitting in the middle of it all. David, Les, and their mealy-mouthed sister Sarah sat with their parents in a circle around the small feast, laughing and singing as they passed around the dishes. A tiny fir tree hovered over them in the background, decorated with tinsel and shiny round globes. The Jacobs may not have had much, but they had something far more valuable: a real family Christmas.

Race tore his gaze away and gruffly started out into the streets. The snow crunched underfoot, creating the only sound in the still, white world that engulfed him. To lift his spirits, he hummed 'Silent Night' under his breath. He wasn't alone this Christmas. After all, he still had places to go, people to see, things to do. He'd worked hard all month to ensure himself of that.

A costermonger, bundled tightly in a thick, restricting jacket, shivered and cursed as he slowly drove his Belgian along the slick cobblestones. He had covered himself so thoroughly that all that was visible of him were a pair of beady dark eyes and a large, droopy red moustache that stuck out from beneath his dark green hat. The old gelding he drove plodded on steadily, unfazed by the weather. A cheap Christmas wreath hung around his neck, swaying to and fro with the rhythm of his walk.

Race stopped and held out a hand for the street merchant to stop. When the old man obliged, he darted up to the side of the wagon. "Hey, you headin' over toward Brooklyn?"

The man gave a short nod.

Race grinned. "Can I hitch a ride dere?"

"Sure, kid. Get in da back." The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "What wit it bein' Christmas and all…freeze to death walkin' to Brooklyn in those clothes…blasted weather…" His words slowly trailed off into indecipherable mumbling.

"Thanks a lot." Race leapt over the buckboard panel and sat down between a couple of wooden crates. The creaky wagon gave a lurch and they slowly began moving away from the cramped, dirty corners of Manhattan.

"There's apples in them crates." The costermonger called over his shoulder. "If you'd like, you can pinch a few and I won't be cryin' off to da coppers, like."

Race had already reached his arm into one of the crates without waiting for the old man's permission. He pulled out a couple of juicy, red apples and rolled them up in a crumpled newspaper that had been caught between the boards of the wagon. He looked them over and smiled contentedly. Things were going just as planned, which didn't happen very often for Race.

He leaned back against the crates and watched the Jacobs' apartment house grow smaller and smaller. It would be a while before they arrived anywhere near Coney Island. He relaxed and stared up at the snowflakes slowly raining down from the sky, letting his mind wander back over the weeks leading up to Christmas Eve. His brown eyes danced mirthfully and his mouth curled into a crooked smile, revealing his off-kelter teeth. If the events of the preceding weeks were anything to go by, it certainly wasn't going to be a Christmas he'd soon forget…

* * *

Race clutched his betting slip tightly in his fist, his eyes expertly following the field of ten as the horses rounded the final turn for home. He pressed against the rail and hopped up and down, screaming at the top of his voice. "Come on, baby! Bring it home! Bring it home!"

The cloudless blue sky and the late November sun smiled down on the final day of Sheepshead's fall meet. The fifth race on the card was in full swing. Jockeys either went to their whips or sat down to ride, using every ounce of their strength to haul their mounts over the finish line. One large, mahogany bay filly with a wide blaze erupted from the pack, reaching valiantly with ground-covering strides and fighting her rider, Percy Saunders, for her head. She flew by the colts as if they were standing still and swept under the wire ahead by a length.

"Yes!" Race hollered and cheered up in the stands. He cupped his hands around his mouth, leaning down in the direction of the track. "Way to go, Darcy!"

On the track, he saw his friend, backstretch worker Jim McAllister, plod over to the filly and grab her bridle. The giant, cumbersome man slowly led her in the direction of the winner's circle. Percy Saunders sat erect and regal in the saddle, swaying easily with the motion of the filly's gait. Race sighed and watched the procession enviously before making his way to the bookie counters.

Race's regular bookie, Slick Thomas, was waiting for him when he arrived. So called because the shifty-eyed man reeked of oil, Slick reached across the counter and plucked the betting slip out of Race's hand. "Ah, well, can't lose them all."

Race withdrew his hand and wiped it on his shirt, coolly leaning against the counter. He smiled innocently and waited for the bookie to read his winning ticket.

"Well, well, well." Slick glanced at Race in amusement. "Two bits on Evening Nightshade to win. At two-to-one, that's four bits I owe you." He shook his head and reached under the counter. "Gettin' a little cavalier with your money, Race?"

Race pulled his cigar out of his mouth and grinned. "Wit a filly like her on da track, I can be as cavalier as Teddy Roosevelt. You know, I ain't never lost a bet on her. I was actin' on tip from a friend back in da spring, and she ain't let me down since." He raised his eyebrows and tapped his fingers on the counter cockily. "Evening Nightshade's expanded my wallet asteroid-nomally. It's a miracle. I'm in love wit her."

"Careful, Race." Slick cocked a well-oiled brow tauntingly and passed fifty cents over the counter. "When you start personalizing your investments, you start runnin' into trouble."

"You's forgettin' dat I live on trouble." Race smiled and collected his money, shoving it into his pockets. "When dere ain't trouble, dat's when I gotta start worryin'." He pushed himself off the counter and slowly started ambling away. "Don't be gettin' attached to your dough dere. I'll be back in time for da sixth."

"I'm betting you will." Slick drawled, turning back to his register.

Race laughed and fairly skipped off toward the backstretch. He was acting like a giddy schoolboy on his first night, but he hardly cared. Every time that filly won for him, his spirits fairly soared toward unattainable heights.

He loped out the front gate and caught sight of a pompous middle-aged man dressed in a dark blue uniform and pointed cap. He stood so he blocked the path between the public and the racetrack's shed row. The only thing menacing about the guard was the stout club that lay tucked at his side. He watched the crowd acutely, ready and waiting for the slightest sign of trouble.

"Hey, Masters!" Race called out to the man, striding up to the stabling area. He grinned and jerked his thumb in the direction he'd just come from. "Better watch out. Dere's a couple of gamecocks throwin' punches in front of da gate. Looks like a squall dat's shapin' into a storm."

Masters eagerly took a step in the direction Race had indicated, searching the crowded scape of spectators. "Where?"

Race ducked and hurried through the gate. He darted off in the direction of Beanie McGregor's barn, running like the devil himself was on his tail.

Masters turned and chuckled, staring after him. "Race, you tricky bastard! I'll catch you one of these days!"

Race slowed to a walk as he came under the awning of Beanie's shed row. He sauntered past the long line of dusty stalls until he finally reached the corner box on the end. There, he found the whole entourage sans Percy. The trainer, Beanie McGregor, stood close by conversing about the race with August Belmont, the filly's owner. Race tipped his cap deferentially toward the two gentlemen before turning his attention toward the stall.

The filly herself poked her striped, sweat-soaked head over the partition and nuzzled Race. He laughed and stroked her smooth, velvet nose. "Hey, Darcy. Nice to see you, too."

"Race!" The tall, rotund Jim McAllister puffed his way up to the front of the stall. Sweat dripped off of his fatty face from exertion. "You know you's ain't allowed back here! How da Hell do you keep gettin' past old Masters?"

"What can I say? Da old man has got a soft spot for me." Race grinned up at the jolly giant. "What's da matter, Mic? Been workin' hard?"

"Hey, no wisecracks, you hear?" Mic tiredly pointed a stout finger at him. "You know what I'd do if I had your frame? I'd be up in da saddle instead of blowin' my time sittin' in da stands, smokin' cigars and guzzling beer da way you do."

"Touché, my friend." Race chuckled and stroked the filly's broad white nose. "Lay off and let me live, will ya? I's still young. And I'll get up in da saddle yet, you mark my words."

"You, be a jockey? You couldn't ever ride, Race! Jockeys ain't allowed to bet!"

"Not legally, anyway." Race murmured suggestively.

Mic shook his head. "Race, you're a…" He caught sight of Mr. Belmont standing only a few feet away and closed his mouth. "Well, you know what you are," he mumbled.

"Yeah, a street rat dat's got some real dough on him. I'm four bits up thanks to dis gal." Race reached out and hugged the filly's foam-flecked neck. "You wonderful horse, you! You's gonna make me a millionaire someday!"

"What would you ever do with a million dollars, Race?" Mic picked up his rub rag and began running it over the filly's back.

"Dere's a private viewing box up in da stands dat's had my name on it since I was six." Race smiled. "It would be a shame to see it go unclaimed after all dis time, don't ya think?"

Mic snorted, not taking his eyes off of the filly. "Small chance of dat happening."

"Too bad I can't fix da odds in my favor." Race patted Darcy and let her rest her large head on his shoulder. "Da day someone hands me a million dollars is da day I die and go to heaven."

"I'll lay you ten to one St. Peter don't even let you through the gate."

"Hey, I resent dat." Race frowned playfully. "Not everything I've done is bad. I's been faithful most of da time."

Mic raised his eyebrows.

Race grinned weakly. "Some of da time?"

Mic turned and stared at him silently.

"A little bit?"

Mic tossed the rag into his bucket, his doubtful gaze still trained on Race.

"Come on!" Race exploded. "I's a good Catholic when I's got a mind to be!"

"And how often is dat?" Mic smiled and turned back to grooming the filly.

"About as often as I win four bits on a single horse race." Racetrack fondled the filly, tousling her short black mane and scratching behind her long, mulish ears. The filly nipped at his navy cap and pulled it right off of his head.

"Hey! Give it back!" Race cried, laughing. His gaze shone fondly on Darcy, who stood in the middle of her stall with his cap clutched between her teeth. He folded his arms over the door and silently admired her. She was tall and well muscled for a filly. She had a short back and a long, straight neck with a clean throatlatch. Her straight, powerful legs stood squarely underneath her body. Her mahogany bay coat gleamed with health. The slope of her shoulders and pasterns was perfect. Her regal, attractive head swung his way and her large, round eyes stared into his tiny, almond-shaped ones. There was a spirit and vitality about her that he'd never seen before in a racehorse. He sighed deeply and smiled. She was perfect, absolutely perfect. He thought he'd never lose his head over a horse, but Evening Nightshade was no ordinary horse.

"Drop it, Darcy." Mic demanded in a low voice.

The filly defiantly nodded her head up and down, still holding onto Race's cap.

"Aw, let her be, Mic." Race waved him off. "She ain't hurtin' no one."

As if she'd understood his words, Darcy lowered her head and dropped Race's cap on top of a pile of fresh manure.

"Thanks a lot." Race chuckled.

Darcy thrust her head over the stall door and bumped her nose up against Race's chest. She snorted softly, blowing green slime all over his brown, checkered vest.

"Oh, so now you want to make up wit me?" Race gently stroked her brown neck. "Don't worry, Darce. I still love you. Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lump of sugar. He offered it to Darcy, who gobbled it up and pressed her head harder against him, searching for more. "Compliments of Tibby's Restaurant."

Mic frowned in concern. "You're really smitten wit her, Race."

"Is dat a bad thing?" Race murmured.

"I don't know. Hold on and let me take a look in my crystal ball." Mic grinned and ducked the currycomb Race threw at him. "Hey! Lay off! We're already in a war wit Cuba! Da last thing we need is to rouse up Little Italy."

"If I could remember any Italian, I'd tell you off right now." Race frowned. Mic had nerve, poking fun at his height and his parentage at the same time. He reached his hand up and rubbed the filly's wide forehead. "You better be nice. Dis goil and me, we never would've made our special connection if you hadn't tipped me off da other day."

"I'm innocent! I had no idea it'd turn into dis obsession wit you, honest!" Mic shook his head. "I'm just sayin' I thought I'd never see da day when Race Higgins fell in love wit a horse."

Race smiled softly at Darcy. "Wit a freak like her, how could you _not?"_

* * *

"Dammit!" Race slammed his cigar case shut and tossed it back onto his cot. He stared at the small pile of change sitting on his bedspread, his expression grim. Surely, he'd saved more than _that! _To make sure, he carefully counted the coins again.

"Hey, Race! You seen da Sunday morning edition? Your filly got her picture in da sports column…" Crutchy slowly limped up to Race's bunk, holding that morning's newspaper. Crutchy had been born a gimp and constantly needed the aid of his crutch to get around. Like Race, he was an orphaned Manhattan newsie and lodged at Kloppman's. Though he always meant well, Crutchy sometimes forgot to think before he spoke, which often got him in trouble. He stopped in front of Race and gazed down at him in confusion. "What'cha doin'?"

"Crutchy, you know how many days are left until Christmas?"

"Gosh, I don't know. Hang on a second, let me count 'em." Crutchy frowned at his palm and slowly began counting them off with his fingers.

"Thirty four." Race murmured.

"How's dat?"

"Thirty four. We got thirty four days left until Christmas." Race shook his head at the tiny stash of money sitting before him. "And I've got nothin'."

"Dat many? Wow, sure seems a long way away, doesn't it?" Crutchy smiled. "Don't worry, Race. If you's talkin' about Christmas gifts, well, it don't matter how much dough you got. You still give really neat Christmas gifts. Da best! I still got da paper clip you gave me last year, it's real nice…"

"I ain't talkin' about da junk I give you guys." Race interrupted sternly. "I'm talkin' about _real _presents you buy wit _real _money."

Crutchy raised his eyebrows. "Race, not dat I'm not flattered, but, uh, don't you think dat's a little much? I mean, you don't have to go out and buy me anything. My paper clip was swell. Really! I'd feel terrible if you was goin' out on my account…"

"Dis ain't for you, bonehead." Race rolled his eyes and pointed to the paper Crutchy held in his hand. "I want a nice present for her. Darcy."

Crutchy cocked his head to one side. "Da pape says her name's Evening Nightshade."

"Darcy's her barn name." Race sighed and lay back against his pillow, folding his arms behind his head. "I won on her again yesterday. You know, Crutch, you ought to see her sometime. You ain't never gonna see a more poifect horse dis side of da Hudson. Not in our lifetime, anyway."

Crutchy shrugged. "So she's a nice hoise. Why do you wanna blow all your money on a present for her?"

"Do I gotta spell it out for you?" Race sat up and frowned at him in annoyance. "Dis is important to me, Crutchy. Dis is more important to me den anything. It don't need an explanation." A zealous light flickered in his intense gaze. "Dis ain't just a nice horse and it ain't gonna be just some gift. I'm gonna buy Darcy da best Christmas present I ever gave, and if I gotta bust my ass over da next thirty four days to do it, den I will."

Crutchy's eyes widened in surprise. "You're really serious about dis, Race? You ain't foolin'?"

"Dat's right. Dis ain't no joke." Race grabbed the paper out of Crutchy's hand and shooed him away. "Now would you lay off and leave me to it?"

"Sure, Race." Crutchy lowered his head and limped away like a scolded puppy.

Race flipped open the paper and stared at the photo of Darcy in the winner's circle. The grainy, black and white picture made her coat look black and her white blaze provided a splash of contrast against her dark face. He turned and pinned the paper up on the wall over his pillow. Then, with renewed vigor, he flipped his cigar box open once more and dumped out a set of matches and his really nice pair of Havana cigars. He set them down on a small nightstand by his cot. Snipeshooter would probably steal them as soon as he got the chance, but Race didn't care. His present was far more important.

Just as he was carefully dropping all his pennies into the tin, the irregular cadence of Crutchy's walk against the floorboards made him look up. Crutchy stood there grinning sheepishly, his one free hand holding a soiled handkerchief.

"What's da matter? You sick or somethin'?" Race murmured, turning back to his change.

"Race? I was just thinking…well, seein' as how dis racehoise is so impoitant to you, I figured…you probably need dis more den I do." Crutchy emptied the handkerchief onto the bedspread. An assortment of pennies and nickels tumbled out, mingling with Race's lot. "It's what I made today, sellin'."

Race raised an elegant dark brow in shock. "Look, Crutch…you don't gotta do dat…"

"Sure, I do. You's practically me brudda." Crutchy slung his arm around Race's shoulder. "It's nothin' I wouldn't do for any of da other fellas. Us newsies, we gotta stick together."

"Right." Race turned and smiled at him. "Thanks a lot, Crutchy."

"Hey, don't mention it." Crutchy snatched at Race's cap and tossed it aside. "And don't think I ain't gonna tell Jackey and da boys when dey get here. You's ain't gonna do dis alone. You's gonna have all of Manhattan backin' you up!"

Race laughed and picked up his cap as Crutchy limped off. Who needed an army or a brotherhood if you had the newsies? In fact, the more he thought about it, the more his mood lifted. After all, since he'd become a newsie, he'd stuck his neck out plenty of times for Manhattan in rumbles and wars with other New York boroughs. And now… a warmth welled in the pit of his stomach and made him grin. The feeling was unsettling, uneasy. It made him feel sick, yet at the same time, he felt great. The feeling was hope. Perhaps he would be able to buy his Christmas present, after all.

He turned back to the newspaper hanging over his cot and his smile grew. Crutchy or no Crutchy, newsies or no newsies, he was going to do everything possible to achieve his goal. There was no alternative for him. He needed nothing less for the first Christmas he got to share with someone he really cared about.

* * *

It almost didn't happen.

Race worked like a man possessed over the next few weeks, pushing twice his usual amount of papes. He sold the morning, daily, and evening editions of the _New York World _each day. He'd trudge into Kloppman's at one o'clock in the morning to find scattered pennies lying on his bedspread. He'd grumble about how the fellas were short changing him, dump the small handful of coins into his tin with the money he'd earned, and collapse onto his cot for a measly four hours of sleep. Then he'd have to wake up and do the whole thing over again.

The routine didn't agree with Race. Dark circles began growing underneath his brown eyes. He stopped making jokes. His temper grew short. His whole world centered on selling, selling, selling. He had no patience for anything else, especially not his fellow newsies. The minute Specs pulled out a deck of cards, he shouted in his face to leave him alone. When Les brought him his marbles so they could play a game, he dumped the marbles all over the floor and stormed off. When Jack asked him about the morning headlines, he promptly told him to go to Hell.

As far as Jack was concerned, Race was one remark away from getting soaked. Kid Blink never passed up the opportunity to bump shoulders with Race when he passed. Skittery was quick to leave whenever Race entered the general vicinity. Boots and Dutchy ignored his presence altogether.

But Race wasn't completely without allies. Crutchy continued to hand every cent he earned over to Race and convinced several of the others to do the same, if not for any other reason than to pay off outstanding poker debts they had with Race. David appeased Jack and the others by telling Race's side of things, consequently saving Race's nose from being broken into seven different pieces.

And in time, the duo convinced the other newsies to contribute their hard-earned wages to his cause. It wasn't easy, though. The others fought hard, all the way up to the moment when they agreed to help. "A scrooge like him don't deserve friends like us!" Dutchy had protested, just as he handed over his day's pay.

The cigar tin filled up slowly, far too slowly for Race's liking. He was doing everything he can, but the situation looked far too dismal. He began to believe that he would never earn enough money in time for Christmas.

Then, in mid-December, a sudden change came over Race. The cigar tin was nearly filled to capacity, and the sight of it alone was enough to lift his mood. He began to laugh more, smile more. The long hours were suddenly more tolerable. His friends were more tolerable. And accordingly, the newsies became more eager to give Race their money.

What was more, little trinkets began appearing among the newsies' possessions, all augmented by Race's signature on the back of a crumpled betting slip. They were simple things, like shoelaces, buttons, handkerchiefs, and crudely carved rings and fetishes. Racetrack, the notorious gift giver, had finally rekindled his Christmas spirit.

He was abruptly bombarded with so much money from his comrades that he needn't have bothered with his grueling shifts. And the outpouring of wealth came from the most surprising of sources.

"Look, Race. I got you a quarter." Les handed the money over to Race.

"Oh, yeah? How'd you get dat?" Race glanced at it appreciatively before tucking it in with the rest of his stash in the cigar tin.

"Da mayor gave it to me. He told me to have a merry Christmas."

"Oh, he did?" Race raised his eyebrows and grinned at the boy in amusement. "He must be fightin' hard for reelection if he's countin' on da parents of poor little boys like you to vote him back in on his act of kindness. What you do for him?"

"I sold him a paper, dat's all. You can have my penny, too." Les handed Race the smaller coin.

"Thanks, kid." He whispered. He didn't have time to say anything else because Kid Blink accosted him from behind and dragged him into a headlock. Race struggled to free himself. "Blink, what do ya think you're doin'?" He cried. He sent up a rousing howl that distracted Blink long enough for Race to stomp on his captor's foot and break free of his grip. When he turned to face him, Blink only grinned and dropped a whole pail of change at his feet.

"Where da hell did dat come from?" He pointed to the red pail incredulously. The bucket had to contain more than most newsies made in a year.

Blink shrugged and grinned. "Dere was dis guy ringin' a bell outside Tibby's. And every time one of us walked in or out of da door, he got in our face! We couldn't take it anymore! So Skittery jumped him and I took off wit his money bucket."

"You stole from da Salvation Army?" Race blanched, his jaw dropping to the floor.

"Dat guy had it comin' to him. Sides, we let him keep his bell." Blink picked up the bucket and handed it to Race. "Here. Take it for your horsie."

He accepted the stolen money and smiled helplessly. "I don't really know what to say, Blink. Wit da way I's been actin', I ain't really deserved you goin' out and stealin' for me. Thanks."

"We was gonna do it, anyway. Da way we figured it, why shouldn't we get something for you out of it as well?" Skittery spoke from where he brooded in the corner.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas." Blink slapped Race across the back and walked away.

"Hey, Race! Look what I rounded up!" Boots proudly held out a crumpled newspaper full of money. "I went around to all da other boroughs; Da Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn. I collected payment from some guys dat still owe you at cards. Even Spot Conlon gave me a jit and told me to send you his regards."

"Spot! Dat tightwad! He owes me a lot more den a jit! Soon as dis Christmas truce is over, he better not find himself alone in any dark alleys." Race took the paper and poked the coins around, nodding appreciatively. Boots was no extortionist, but he'd done a fine job. "Thanks."

* * *

One afternoon, he acquired an R. H. Macy & Co. catalog and flipped through it until he found the perfect gift. He smiled as soon as he saw it; he knew it was just what he wanted.

Later that same day, Jack, who was stationed at his usual selling corner, saw him walking out of the department store. Race was hardly ever in Manhattan's high end, so he stuck out in the crowd. He looked starkly incongruous to his surroundings. As soon as Jack caught sight of him, he waved and ushered him over. Race glanced around and pushed past a lady in a fur coat to dash across the busy street.

He stopped in front of his friend and grinned, panting. "Hey, Jack. How's it goin'?"

"All right, I guess. I just noticed dis ain't your usual sellin' spot." Jack nodded to the parcel Race was carrying. "Dat your present?"

"Yeah. Say, you ever been in one of dem places? You never seen such neat stuff before in your life, Jack. All brand new, right at your fingertips. You should have seen all da mucks dey had in dere, too. Dey all looked at me like I was a leper or somethin'. You know most of 'em buy stuff dere every day? Dere's a lotta dough in dat joint. More den Irving Hall, even." Race smiled and pulled out his cigar. "If dat private box at Sheepshead Races never works out, I's buyin' me a department store."

"What you buy?" Jack asked.

"Oh, dis?" Race reached in and pulled a folded horse blanket out of the parcel. It was a dark emerald green made of simple cotton, but was quilted on the underside. Each neat stitch added to the fine quality. The material fairly shone and was soft to the touch. Race couldn't help but grin proudly when he held it up.

Jack reached out and felt it, nodding appreciatively. "Dat's real nice, Race."

"Too bad you's ain't a horse, right?" Race wrapped it back up in the brown paper. "It's just right for her, Jack. I can't wait to give it to her Christmas Eve."

"You's set a good store in dis, Race. I hope it's everything you's wantin' it to be." Jack glanced at Race worriedly.

"Don't you worry about dat." Race waved his cigar in Jack's direction and started off down the street. "Nothin' can go wrong now. I's got da best present ever. So dere's no way it ain't goin' to be da best Christmas ever."

* * *

On the morning of December twenty-fourth, Race opened his eyes at five in the morning. All was dim in the boarding house. The overcast skies outside were dark and gloomy, blocking any pre-dawn light from entering the window. He heard Specs snoring across the room and turned over on his cot to escape the sound. He was still reluctant to get up, even though he knew he had to. He reached toward the table for his cigars, not really expecting them to be there. When he felt them under his fingers, he sat up in surprise and looked down at the nightstand. There, sitting on top of the cigars was a scrap of paper. Race picked it up and squinted to make out the message:

'**Mrry Krismas. Snipe.'**

He shook his head and smiled, tucking the note and the cigars into his vest pocket before shrugging it on. As he finished dressing, he scanned the room full of his fellow Manhattan newsies. In another hour or so, Kloppman would wake them up with his customary gift of a dime for each boy. That way, all the boys would be out spending it on whatever they liked Christmas day. The amount of money had never mattered to Race and the boys. It was the kindly intent behind the old man's gift that really made it special. And despite all the generous monetary donations he'd gathered from his friends, Race found Snipe leaving his cigars alone a far more special gift.

He finished dressing and slowly sneaked outside, the parcel containing his blanket underneath his arm. The floorboards creaked slightly under his scuffed, grimy boots. He hardly dared to breathe, for fear of waking anyone up. He passed by the window, where a few stray snowflakes had been tossed against the pane by a gusty, biting wind.

* * *

The wind had long since ceased, but the snow continued to fall harder and harder still. Race blinked to free the flakes from his eyelashes. He reclined his noble head to stare at the snowy sky. Dark gray clouds shielded the stars from view. The flakes slid down his smooth cheeks and disappeared down the stiff collar of his shirt. He closed his eyes and swayed with the rhythm of the cart, letting the snow embrace him instead of trying to shield himself from it. He welcomed the cool, nipping sensation of the winter air against his skin. The snow was wonderful. It made him feel so small and vulnerable in the giant rat race of a world he lived in. It was a natural feeling for him. Since the day he'd been born, Race had always been the first to laugh in the face of vulnerability.

The cart halted with an abrupt jerk, jolting him forward against the crates. "Here we are, lad. You was wantin' to go to Brooklyn, right?"

Race stirred and stretched his stiff muscles. The old man huddled protectively inside his coat had turned around in his seat and watched his movements closely. Race stooped to pick up his bundle of apples and hopped down into the snow. "Thanks." Without a backward glance, he began trudging off in the direction of Coney Island.

"Hey, kid?" The costermonger called.

Race stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"Merry Christmas, and all that."

Race smiled and waved. "Thanks. You, too."

"Right, then." The bundled mustache turned and flicked his reins. "Come along, Roger."

Race watched the Belgian plod away into the snow. It was falling so rapidly now that the pair was lost in a matter of seconds. Then he was on his way again. As he walked, the snow grew increasingly deeper underfoot. The buildings were nearly impossible to see. All visible landmarks had been buried by the storm, yet Race continued confidently on his path. Landmarks or no, he knew his way there.

At long last, he could finally make out the dark form of Masters standing by the gate to the Sheepshead Bay backside. As he came closer, he saw more clearly the misery written plainly on the guard's face.

"For God's sake, Race! What are you doing here? Get inside where it's warm!" Masters gestured behind him. He didn't even attempt to stop Race slowly passing through the gate. He huddled deeper into his stiff blue overcoat and leaned against the post, his teeth chattering.

Race diligently made his way over to Beanie's barn. He paused only once to pull his present out from behind a board, where he'd stashed it earlier. He came to the large, creaky wooden door and stopped before it. He leaned against the side and pushed on the giant door with all his might, willing it to slide open. The door conceded a slim opening, just wide enough for him to slip inside.

Once in the barn, he strode all the way down the aisle to Darcy's box at the end. He could hear the restless stamping, snorting and rustling of straw from Beanie's other charges as he passed. A Negro groom stirred from where he lay stretched out on a hay bale. He eyed Race warily, turning up the collar of his thin cotton jacket and curling up into a tight ball. For the most part, the stable was still, and ever so quiet.

Race rounded the corner and smiled when he caught sight of Mic. "Hey, Mic. What's wrong?"

His friend's expression was pale and solemn. He walked up to meet Race in a slow, horror-stricken daze. His mouth trembled as he glanced at the parcel Race held in his hands. "Oh, God, Race."

"What? What's da matter?" Race peered over his shoulder and looked into the empty stall beyond. "Where's Darcy?"

Mic pointed to the horse blanket and apples. "Were dose for her?"

An uneasy feeling began to well in the pit of his stomach. A chill that the cold had been unable to invoke started up his spine. "What's wrong?" He whispered breathlessly. "What's wrong? Tell me! What da hell's happened, Mic? Tell me!"

"Dere was an accident," he mumbled.

"An accident?" Race dropped his gift on the floor, his anxiety mounting. His countenance, which had been flush with red a moment before, had drained to a ghostly white pallor. "What kind of accident?"

"On da track…dis morning. It wasn't nobody's fault! It just…happened!" Mic shook tearfully, sitting down and turning his face away from Race.

"No…" Race shook his head fervently. It couldn't have! It didn't! It was a mistake! It _had _to be! "No! No, she's here! She's here somewhere! Where is she?"

'Dey shot her on da track…dey shot her on da track, I saw her…ice spot…leg broke…I saw her!" Mic burst into tears, burying his face in his hands.

Race felt a sudden blow, then a deep, all-consuming void. He staggered and gripped the wall. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel. She was gone, and she'd taken everything with her. He turned and punched the wall with his fist. He welcomed the shooting pain, if for no other reason than to prove he could still feel. He rested his head against the wall and breathed deeply, concentrating intently on the soreness tingling up his arm.

"Race…I…God, I'm sorry." Mic croaked, wiping his eyes.

"What happened?" He mumbled hoarsely.

"Dey shot…"

"I heard dat part." Race barked, his head still resting against the wall. "I wanna know…what happened."

Mic sighed and looked up at Race from where he sat on the dusty stable floor. "Beanie put Percy up and dey was takin' her out for her morning work, same as usual. I was watchin' her on da rail and I clocked her when she went past. She was runnin' fine, Race. In top form. Dat's why I couldn't believe it when she went down. It was icy over on da far turn. Her legs just…went out from under her." He spread his arms wide helplessly. "It was terrible. No one could do nothin', Race. She was tryin' to get up, she kept strugglin', she didn't understand…dey kept pullin' her down. Her whole fetlock was just…shredded…Dey put her out of her misery as soon as dey could."

Race undid the bolt to her stall and slipped inside, slamming the partition door shut behind him. He stared at the floor, which had been swept clean of any remaining traces of her. He pulled his cap off and threw it on the bare floor and frowned silently for a long time. Then he sat down in the corner of the stall and drew his knees up against his chest like a frightened child. He held that stance, staring ahead at nothing, his expression hard and grim.

After a few minutes, Mic labored to his feet and brushed the straw off of his pants. "I'm gettin' out of here. Gonna spend Christmas wit my mother in Elmira." He started off down the aisle, then hesitantly paused and turned back. "You goin' anywhere?"

"No."

"You gonna be okay?"

Race paused and shook his head a fraction. "No."

Mic looked around hesitantly. "Would you rather I stayed wit you?"

"No."

"Okay. Have a…" Mic stopped himself mid-sentence and hurriedly turned to go. He hardly believed that Race would be able to have a nice Christmas.

The door was heaved open and a gush of cold air blew down the stable aisle. Race didn't feel it. He didn't hear Mic leave. He didn't hear the groom out in the aisle snoring. He didn't hear the horses sound off their evening routine. To him, there was nothing. It was all nothing. Christmas was nothing. Nothing but a lot of false hope and disappointment.

* * *

"David?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you asleep yet?"

"No. Quit asking me that."

Les Jacobs turned over in his bed and tried to get comfortable, but he couldn't. His mother had put him to bed hours ago, yet sleep proved elusive. His mind was restless. Over in the next bed, David kept drifting off into sleep, only for Les to wake him up again with his questions. The room was dark and quiet. No sounds came from his parents' room or Sarah's across the hall. Yet something would not allow him to fall asleep.

He lay on his back and turned to gaze up out the tall window. Beyond the fire escape and over the edge of the row house next door, Les could see a thin, dark blue ribbon of sky. A couple of distant stars twinkled like beacons over the quiet city. They fascinated his young mind. First, he tried to guess how far it was from his bed to the brightest star. Then his mind wandered to Mary and Joseph following a star, and the three wise men, and the angels from on high. The stars excited his imagination. He admired them, thinking of how pretty they looked on Christmas Eve.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. It had stopped snowing. The clouds had cleared up, unveiling the stars for him to see. He hastily reached under his pillow and pulled out his special magic Christmas marble. Careful not to disturb his brother, he eased out of bed and padded over to the window. He fixed his gaze on the brightest star he could see and squeezed the marble in his palm. "I wish Racetrack has as good a Christmas as I will." He whispered, smiling. Then he walked back over to his bed, returned the marble to underneath his pillow, and crawled back underneath the blankets. In a matter of moments, he was sound asleep.

* * *

Race did not know how long he sat there. He couldn't feel the time pass as he stared ahead numbly at nothing in particular. He did not notice when the snow ceased to fall. He did not notice the moonlight streaming in through the stable windows. He could only hug his knees and stare coldly out at the cruel, unforgiving world.

He was not stirred from his reverie until some time later, when a loud banging issued forth from the direction of the barn doors. He jumped, startled. He held his breath and listened to the sound. It rang out steadily in the relative silence of the barn. "Go away!" He finally called out.

The harsh sound persisted.

Race crossed his arms and turned inward, hoping the sound went away. The banging didn't cease. When he couldn't ignore the noise any longer, he pushed himself to his feet and stormed over to the door. "I told you to go away!" He grunted and pulled the door open.

But no one was standing there when he poked his head out. He could only see the other barns, the distant oval of the track and the stars glistening in the clear sky overhead. Race looked around and shrugged. He was about to turn back inside when he caught sight the fresh hoof prints in the snow right in front of the barn. Perplexed, he stepped out and followed the trail of prints with his eyes. There, standing along the side of the barn to keep out of the wind, was a lone chestnut mare. Her distended belly indicated she was heavily in foal. She stood with her back to the cold, her eyes turned appealingly toward Race.

"What do you want?" He called in exasperation.

The mare couldn't answer him. She continued to stare at him with her doleful gaze. Her thin coat, which had been worn away by rain rot in some spots, twitched and shivered. She breathed a deep sigh and lowered her head. There was no halter or other sign of domestication about her. A small white ring around her left fore was the only white on her otherwise dull copper coat. The way she looked at him, however, was worse than an accusation.

Race sighed. "Hang on." He ducked inside and grabbed Darcy's halter from where it hung forlornly inside the door. He gruffly strode out to where the mare stood and pulled the leather contraption over her head. Heedless of her comfort, he yanked the headstall over her ears and buckled the strap. It was a little big on the mare's dainty head, but it worked well enough. He turned and tugged on the halter, pulling the ugly mare inside.

He almost couldn't believe what he was doing as he led her down the stable aisle, but he had no choice. He couldn't leave her out in the cold and there were no other stalls available. He rounded the corner and turned her loose in Darcy's box stall. He watched her sniff out her new surroundings with a critical eye. He shook his head at the sorry-looking mare. "Wonder where you came from?" He murmured. "You shouldn't be out in dis weather."

The mare nosed his cap and continued sniffing around the corners of her stall. She turned and paced about restlessly, as if she were searching for something.

Race sighed and rolled up his sleeves. He unbuttoned his vest and slung it down in the aisle before he knelt and broke open one of the bales of hay sitting in the aisle. He threw the straw down into the stall, kicking it around with his boot to spread it out. The mare immediately reached down and grabbed a large handful in her mouth.

"Hey, don't eat dat! Dat's your bed!" Race shook his head and picked up the apples lying on the floor. "Here. If you's so hungry, eat dis." He offered them to her one at a time in his palm.

When she snatched them out of his hand, her long whiskers tickled his fingers. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. The minute he felt it, he swiftly turned away and frowned, running a hand through his dark brown hair. What was he doing? The most incredible horse he'd ever known was gone, and here he was already warming up to this sorry-looking nag! He set his mouth in a firm line and stared ahead determinedly. He would _not _allow himself to become attached again.

He stepped on something soft and looked down to see the green blanket lying under his foot. It seemed so silly now, when it had been so important only a few hours before. He picked it up and dusted off the silky material, then he turned and looked at the mare shivering in the stall. He slowly walked up to her and ran his hand over her patchy, scabbed back. Her coat was so thin that it was no wonder she was cold. He threw the blanket over her and latched it up in the front. He wasn't able to buckle the strap under her barrel because she was so wide and heavy. He shrugged and left her alone as soon as he'd fastened the blanket, stooping only to pick up his navy cap.

He sat back down in the corner of the stall and pulled his cap low over his eyes. He tried to fall asleep, but he found himself watching the mare's feet from his small range of vision carefully. At one point, she ambled over to sniff him, but he was unresponsive and she quickly grew bored with him. She snorted in contentment and turned around in the stall. Race tired of watching her, and drowsily felt his eyelids grow heavy.

He must have dozed off, because he was startled by the anguished cry the mare omitted. His brown eyes flew open and he swiftly jumped to his feet. The sight that greeted him was unsettling. The mare was turning in a tight circle on her haunches, her sides heaving in short gasps. She snorted, her eyes rolling in fright. Trapped, Race gripped the walls on either side and pushed himself against the corner. He watched her motions breathlessly. A multitude of thoughts rushed through his mind: what should he do? Was she colicking? Should he run and get help? Should he help her himself? What if she was dying? What if she died right there in the stall? At this last thought, he closed his eyes and shook his head. If she were, his best option was to get out of the stall and run as far away from the barn as he possibly could.

Suddenly, the mare emitted a shrill whinny and buckled to the ground. She lay propped up with her legs folded up underneath her, her nostrils still flaring at a rapid pace.

Race cautiously walked along the stall wall, slowly edging closer to the mare. He stopped, his eyes widening as he saw the blood in the straw underneath her tail. "Oh, no." He whispered. At that moment, he knew what she was about to do.

He hurried out into the aisle and grabbed the closest bucket of tools, just as the mare called out in another low, strangled neigh. All his fears vanished as he knelt at her side. Each of his movements was calculated, confident. His mind had banished all other thoughts as he concentrated on the task at hand. He pushed his sleeves further up past his elbows and pulled a wrapped cotton bandage out of the pail. Wordlessly, he gathered the soggy, bloody mess of her tail and began winding the bandage around it.

The mare grunted and groaned, straining her head around to bite at her middle and occasionally snatch a few pieces of straw up from the ground. Race worked quickly and efficiently, but it wasn't fast enough in his mind. "Stay wit me, goil," he murmured to the mare as he finished tying the end. "Not yet, not yet. I's almost finished."

The mare cried out again and flopped over on her side, stretching her legs out in the stall. Race let her lay there and reached out to brush her flank. "Easy, goil. Easy. You's okay." He watched her carefully for any signs of distress and waited. Nothing could be heard except the mare's labored breathing. Time seemed to stand still.

Race waited patiently. Mere minutes passed before he finally saw what he was looking for: a tiny pair of hooves emerging from beneath her wrapped tail. At the sight of them, he inhaled sharply. "Dat's it, goil. Dat's it. You can do it."

The mare moaned and lifted her sweat-soaked neck to try to look. Race gently eased her back down and talked to her quietly. The hooves gave way to tiny hocks, and finally to a pair of forelegs. The mare strained with all her might and whickered pleadingly. Race reached out and grabbed the slippery forelegs. He waited for her next exhalation and pulled with all his might.

A small black head and shoulders emerged. Race let the dark form limply fall into the straw. In another second, the hind legs were out. The sac burst and lay in a sticky mess about the foal. The mare sighed and lurched to her feet, the placenta still trailing under her tail.

The foal lay there, not breathing. Race's heart leapt in his throat. Quickly, he reached out lifted the damp head up toward the air. He used his finger to clear the foal's nostrils of amniotic fluid. To his overwhelming relief, the tiny ribcage moved under his hand as the foal gulped in its first breath. Once he was sure the foal was breathing steadily, he let it sit in the straw and moved away. As soon as he retreated back into his corner, the mare walked over and sniffed the foal curiously. Then, instinctually, she began cleaning the foal with her tongue.

Race leaned against the wall and sighed, wiping a grimy hand across his forehead. He looked a mess. His shirt was soiled and his dark hair clung to his crown with sweat, but he hardly cared. He was too fascinated with the scene unfolding before him.

The mare finished licking the foal's coat. The tiny horse squealed and struck out with one of its forelegs, as if to proclaim, "I am alive!" The mare sat down next to her foal and nuzzled it lovingly. As Race watched them, he became increasingly aware of the foal's beauty. The coat, now dry, could be discerned as a dark brown, almost black. There was a tiny sock on the right hind and a small dot of a star in between the large, liquid eyes. The foal had small ears and a fine, slightly dished head. It sat well over a proportionate neck and a thin, clean throatlatch. The tiny stub of a tail switched to and fro in the straw playfully. The legs, long and spindly in contrast to the compact body, still lay limply underneath the foal. He smiled at the small, furry miracle lying in the straw, proud to have had a hand in bringing it into this world.

He sat back and gazed out at the clear night sky. The stars twinkled and shone with an ethereal glow, casting an odd, bright light over the unsoiled blanket of fresh snow. The familiar wasteland of the backside and the racetrack beyond looked almost…holy. The notion caused him to feel a warm, tingling sensation. It was a feeling unlike any other he'd felt. It was too good for him to keep to himself. "Merry Christmas," he murmured to the foal and its mother. Never had he meant those words more.

* * *

Hours later, the foal, whom he'd discovered to be a filly, was up and walking about the stall. She whinnied and pranced around the perimeter of the box, sometimes walking right underneath her mother to get to the other side. She occasionally came up to Race and sniffed him, flaring her thin little nostrils playfully. But as soon as Race reached up to touch her, she jumped away.

Race laughed, enchanted by the filly and her blithe, whimsical ways. She was beautiful, she was vibrant, and she hadn't even existed the night before. Sitting in a stall, sticky with dried sweat and blood, with no presents to give, Race couldn't imagine a more special way to spend Christmas. He hadn't a clue how he'd deserved such a thing, but he never wanted the day to end.

Soon enough, the filly tired of her antics. Her young limbs grew lethargic. Just as dawn was starting to break over the distant horizon, she ambled up to Race and collapsed in the straw, stretching her nose in his lap.

Race reached down and stroked her gently. He shook his head and smiled in wonder. She closed her eyes and dozed. He glanced at her mother standing over them, but the mare placidly continued to chew on her bedding. It was as if she knew that Race would bring them no harm.

For the first time that evening, Race actually felt tired. He wanted badly to stay awake, to savor the quiet moment he had with the mare and her filly in the stall. But the events of last night had worn him ragged, and he needed just a moment…nothing more…just like the filly…who had a pretty, albeit unsymmetrical star on her forehead…

Her star slowly grew fuzzier and fuzzier around the edges, then grew smaller, and more distant…and smaller still…and…darker…

* * *

He did not wake up until he heard footsteps echoing down the aisle. He lifted his head from where it had hung gently over the sleeping filly and blinked, turning his gaze toward the partition door. There, Beanie McGregor stood in the aisle looking in, his felt derby and horn-rimmed glasses shielding the expression in his watery green eyes. His gloved hands trembled, holding Race's discarded vest. His mouth hung open as he took in the dirty mare, the dirty straw, and the dirty orphan sitting in the corner with a filly stretched out across his lap.

Race coughed uncomfortably. "Uh, Mr. McGregor, sir. I can explain…"

"Ye Gods…it's Queenie." Beanie whispered incredulously as the mare poked her head over the stall door.

Race's brows furrowed together in confusion. "You mean, you know dis horse?"

"Know her? Where in God's nightgown did you ever find her?" Beanie cried. "Dis is Queen of the Nile, Mr. Belmont's prize broodmare! She escaped her field back in da spring and no one could tell where she'd disappeared to!"

Race blanched. The filly stirred in his lap and turned her head in the direction of her mother, whinnying softly. The mare answered with a low whicker. He let her rise onto her spindly legs and trot over to Queenie for her breakfast.

Race watched her reach underneath the mare's belly for a drink of milk. He didn't even hear Beanie address him. After a few seconds, he blinked and shook his head. "Sorry, sir. What'd you say?"

"How did you happen to find her?"

Race smiled crookedly at the pair standing before him. "Dat's just da thing. I didn't. She found me."

"Racetrack…" Beanie's tone grew grave. "I know how…attached…you were to that filly…It was terribly unlucky…I'm sorry…"

"No, no, no. It's okay." He propped an arm up over one raised knee and chuckled reflectively. "Turned out, I was celebrating Christmas for all da wrong reasons. Dese two here reminded me what was really important."

Beanie nodded gruffly and pointed to Queenie's tail. "Dat's a good job dere. You do it?"

Race shrugged. "I had to. I was da only one here."

Beanie gave him a stern gaze, but it wasn't the usual condescending look. Etched in the solemn, weathered face were the traces of professional respect. The corners of his mouth twitched with approval. Race had to look away abashedly. He'd never been good at anything practical, save poker. Such a compliment from a man like Beanie McGregor was something he'd never expected to receive.

Suddenly, the mare moved away from where she'd been standing a few feet from Race. Laying in the straw where she'd just been lay a muddy cast-iron horseshoe.

"Looks like your luck is turning around, Race."

Race reached out and picked it up. His face fairly glowed. He turned the object over in his hands. The shoe was dirty, corroded and worn from prolonged use, but to Race it was beautiful. Already, he was thinking about all the lucky bets it would bring him in the New Year.

"Do you want to name her?"

"Sir?" Race turned back to the trainer. He held his hand out, palm upwards, to the filly, who cautiously approached him with her small nostrils flaring.

"You heard me. What do you want to name her, the filly?" Beanie gestured to her. "After all, you earned it."

Race laughed and raised his head as the filly reached out to nibble at the holly sprig on his cap. "Holly," he said. "Her name's Holly."

"That's pretty." Beanie turned away and coughed. "I'll be in my office fillin' out da record books." He was halfway down the aisle before he called over his shoulder, "Merry Christmas, Racetrack."

"Merry Christmas!" He replied. The filly tickled his ear and pressed her nose against his cheek. Race reached up to touch her. Instead of pulling away, she obligingly lowered her head and let him fondle her ears. He sighed contentedly, tears gracing the corners of his eyes. "Merry Christmas, Holly. Thanks."


End file.
